L'Origine della Colpa
by KarnivalKun
Summary: A messy thing. Giotto shrinking his brain off after he and his Guardians happened to found the Simons corpses. Quite angsty, rather incomprehensible. Hints of CozartxGiotto, language just a bit 'bad'.


**A/N**: I'll confess I've tried to read it to fix eventual errors and didn't understand a freaking thing or point in the whole shot. But it's ok, it wouldn't turn out any good even if I'd start it over again so I'll upload it as it is. This is what happens when I write in one go out of pure inspiration and I don't even bother to wonder what the heck am I writing [well, to be honest it's always like this].

Yeah, adorable Cozart is dead. Torn from limb to limb. It's canon [duh, lately I'm really loving this word], and .. Amano, I think I hate you for having created a character this beautiful and passionate and then have him -brutally- killed ages before the actual story.  
I'm addicted to redheads and I love Cozart, I thought about drawing a fan art about his death but it would turn out pretty gore and splatter, and that is not my share. So I wrote instead.

I do not have the slightest intention to apologize for my writing style being possibly OOC, abstruse, incomprehensible or .. damn fangirl-ish. If you don't wanna deal with it don't waste your time, just pon the backspace and try something else.

**_KHR and its characters © Amano Akira _**

* * *

**L'origine della colpa**

The sky was falling. In pieces, in heavy drops full of liquid anguish, in colors without voice, in sounds without heart. Millions of crystal tears shattered the horizon and fell like fake stars spread over a whole masked ball crowd to entertain and to delight rich bourgeoisie with nothing else to do. But that was like another world. The breakdown had began around dusk, when a sudden tingling alarmed the faraway heaven's intuition, and then had reached its utmost before dawn, when hell had been let loose to burn everything down.

The sky was falling, his hands cupped to gather the last shot of legitimate blood spilling along the surface of a cold stone. On top of that, a pair of eyes gazed at emptiness without focusing. A washed out hue painted their orbit, the spectral reminder of what once had been a vivid red with spiky pupils.

.I.

G's sanguine tattoo reminded him of something alive, too fucking alive to cope with it at the moment. Truth to be said, everyone -_everything_- around him attempted to undermine his condition. He pretended to listen to his right-hand man but his attention fell elsewhere along the distance, where a desolated land spread itself away from sight until its sick green melted into drab mist and humidity and it vanished beyond the skyline. G's sighed.

"Giotto? .. Giotto. Mi stai ascoltando? Mh?" The red-headed Storm was apparently on the brink of losing his patience. It wasn't the fact that the question had been repeated over seven times. It wasn't even the stubborn silence in which the blond had barricaded himself into since they'd found the corpse. It was the look on his boss' handsome apathetic face, something which throbbed rather clearly with a sterile and ultimate _I don't give a damn_.

"Don't talk Italian, please." Primo's eyes twitched towards G for a brief moment, but their aim was too low to honor the Guardian's already wounded ego with a straight glance. "I forbid it, for now."

The chattering rumors around them stopped, steps quieted down and other four pairs of eyes shot in Giotto's direction. Only the rain kept on singing its melancholic song on the dull ground while the Guardians stared at him in astounded silence as he was absolutely, insanely, incurably mad. Now, if that didn't occurred to them thanks to the ridiculous request -order, they could swear- they surely made up their mind hearing their boss' voice. Not once up to that moment had it been so shallow and empty, so lost. So .. _careless._  
Lampo whimpered; being the nuisance he was, as well as a mop of greenish hair restraining the wind to blow from ear to ear, he couldn't get past a prohibition or a detached attitude. He was beginning to sniff loudly before Knuckle friendly hit his shoulder, surely with too much effort, and sent the spoiled brat landing face in the mud instead of console him. At least his whining was muffled now, and a fatherly Asari took care of the rest.

"Nonsense." The conversation resumed. G's reply was polite but inflexible, although his look was clearly accusing all the legit nervousness of handling an explosive device ready to blow up. His deep tone lowered with tired condescension. "How do you plan to keep up with all your business? With the protection you granted to your people or even with your own family, for that matter. You can't afford to be so unpredictable and put up a good number of your quirks right now, you'd better understand that quickly for everyone's sake."

_Family_. Somehow, Giotto heard him emphasize the word and he almost cracked a bitter smile at the concern, no, at the heart G was putting into his own little speech. The same good old G, always giving his best to make things work in Primo's stead. But .. hey, his shoes were stuck in a reddened ground, and it didn't smell like someone had spilled fine wine all over. It didn't smell just like the rain which was tearing the sky apart since they got there and was turning the land into sheer mud. It didn't smell like it was okay to go on like nothing had happened.  
The reek was human and a thin trail in it still led to his late lover. Unfortunately, this wasn't something he could say out loud.

Giotto had always been sure his Guardians would understand and maybe they would even forgive his abnormal nature, if only he had decided to tell them. He had always been optimistic and when his expectations might fail he would simply let go with a placid smile. What was difficult for him to explain was the new meaning of the word 'family' acquired after his more than intimate relationship with Cozart had started. What was difficult to explain was a hidden shade of his personality that had him fucking jealous and possessive when he'd never been one to envy or to limit his loved ones' choices. And again, the most devious matter to recognize was the devastating urge to devour his life to be by his lover's side, from fire to ashes. Something a man in his position simply couldn't afford.  
Now there was nothing left to hide, beside an endless void, and his flame wasn't flickering high enough to shed a light on the bottomless depths of that tragedy.

This time his lips curved unwillingly in a bitter crease. That did it. G's eyes lost their human size for the shape of a thin cutting edge, an unnerving rage scraped roughly under the traits of the neglected right-hand man whom had pointlessly spoken 'til then. Suddenly, the other four Guardians backed down and found themselves busy with anything but looking at the two; even Alaude, who had already put so much effort into keeping himself away from the main group, hastily doubled his distance and caressed his sweating forehead while the Storm was going all out. A wise decision for potential physical menaces, but it didn't spare their ears: G's voice now could be heard from the next country.

"Now, like it or not you listen to me, you stupid dickhead! Are you done already with this shit? Huh? Because I am, and I'm sick of watching you drag yourself around like you're a fucking dumbass-" Oh, that went on and on and on.

Giotto lift the look and stared vacantly at the loose tie around G's neck, calm and collected as he always was. Outside, at least. Why the hell was he shouting so loud, it hurt his head. It hurt his heart drown into a sinking memory and he just wanted to float in it, he wanted to go down with it.

How could have things come to this when all he had ever wanted was a safe and peaceful town. To grow old and whine his senile sores to a red mop of hair whom shared a bench with him. Share some life knowledge too, maybe, while reading annoying books or sipping some aged liquor just to cough like hell with a throat on fire. To watch seasons pass them by and children bloom without untimely losing their relatives under the warm Sicilian sun.  
So lame, and yet so heartwarming. Was it really what he had been hoping for? Was the hope of that sappy picture the strength in his fists?

If so, all was screwed up now. The power he once had needed to protect his little world had kicked him so high he was now standing above those who burnt down houses and shed poor people's blood. Families had been born to rage against his idea of justice and wars between them were the normalcy. There were so many people who thought they could freely dispose of the life of others, even when at stake there was just a handful of ludicrous and meaningless antics. Ah, Daemon was one of them. Daemon was an aberrant crack in the middle of his perfect vision, a twisted mind with enough authority, skills and ambitions to menace the entire world's very existence.  
But the fault was still his own, the guilt was still pending upon his own head.  
Because .. no, it hadn't been that sappy image he had been cradling for years to ignite his flame. It hadn't been the love for his little town and its sun-kissed people. Was really something he could never confess to no one, not even to the good childhood friend that still loved him like a brother and was actually trying to scream his heart out to keep Primo on the right path. Not even to himself. He simply couldn't acknowledge it had been contentment, satisfaction; pure and egoistic pride sprung from a single statement.

.I.

_There's no one else but you, Giotto._

So awkward, embarrassing, at a frustrating time like that, and he had been sure his face had showed a faint blush at those words. The deep and warm voice that had suddenly tainted his sad thoughts reached the core in less than an instant and left a gaping hole in his heart, like that phrase was an isolated declaration. He knew it wasn't and had tried so hard to avoid misunderstandings and keep Franco on his mind, not allowing the arrow to dive deeper in him .. but under the cooling surface battered by rain and ordinary life's issues, under his own efforts and against his own beliefs, it went to the core, slowly digging with every waking second. And seeing the poor man's crying children nudge their head against Cozart's shoulders hadn't helped him much in quieting down some unknown weight lingering in his chest. Stubbornly playing dumb with those foreign instincts he had nodded in silence, pretending to consider seriously what he'd been told even though, deep in his heart, he had already decided.  
While a flower caught between long fingers spilled a seal of red pearls with its own thorns, Cozart's dream of peace had easily become Giotto's reason of being. Little he knew that the same issue that linked them together would soon divide them forever.  
Right. Back then, he hadn't forgotten what was supposed to be right and good for him and his dearest ones, just .. the single thought of being the one to arrange and secure the young Simon's surroundings had suddenly emphasized the meaning of his own intentions.

.I.

He wasn't cut to be a leader, or maybe he was it now that he'd lost his personal involvement. No, fuck that, he was a real hazard for everyone's sanity and health if he could lose his resolve after something like that. Eh, like that was just an ordinary _something, _not a damn carnage which involved the most precious person of his life.  
He silently mused. Intimate involvement eventually included trust and trust could be a hostile threat if given the chance to grow until it settled into someone's heart; it could put too many things at risk. Too many people. It wasn't the null of losing a war to bother him, rather the fact that the same war was taking away the very reason of his own fighting. What was the meaning in protect someone if that just ended up causing more troubles and losing more friends? Or a lover.  
Giotto felt like he was running around in a blind circle, heeling the tail of a matter that actually had no point.

G was still shouting all out, his face the brighter red his hair wouldn't ever met. Cause that was a different red, that was a red belonging to life, to blood and to the Simon Boss.

Giotto smiled again, rummaging inside his long cloak to draw out from its internal an elegant phial with carved caps on both extremities. Its crystal clear empty form was shining towards G from the blond's palm, now.

"It's over." With nothing more than that Primo put an end to the Storm's soliloquy. The red-headed shut and blinked, at first he didn't catch the subject; yes, the blond's voice had sounded corrupted by a peculiar veil of torment and resolution, but he could have thought that Giotto was only trying to shut him or reassure him he was alright now. Neither the other Guardians, with their ears still bleeding from the previous monologue and tensed over the low phlegmatic tone of their boss, got it the right way. But the blond hadn't nothing else to say and parted silently to reach the spot in which Cozart's torn limbs still laid untouched.

.I.

The sky was falling, his hands cupped to gather the last shot of legitimate blood spilling along the surface of a cold stone. On top of that, a pair of eyes gazed at emptiness without focusing. A washed out hue painted their orbit, the spectral reminder of what once had been a vivid red with spiky pupils.

The first Simon Boss' blood filled the phial like a stream of liquid rushing through a healthy vessel; a good thing they found the scattered body soon enough. A good thing those rocks had an irregulare shape suited to protect part of the human remains from rain. A good thing he could still collect a tragic and powerful memento for the ones whom had still to gain the first sneeze of life, for he could run away from all that but he couldn't forget what happened. He wouldn't allow anyone to forget. And .. a good thing his Guardians were just too puzzled and shocked to really mind his doing.

Because they couldn't see what the heck he was doing but at some point they had seen him ignite his flame. Just a flat and slow light pulsing in the shade of a pale dawn and, as Giotto quietly moved his hands, lazy opaline traces lit the space around him like thin threads of weak light. Shining not so bright, vanishing too quickly.

The mood dropped drastically below all expectations when they eventually realized that what had been creeping through Primo's voice wasn't just the lack of resolve, neither frustration nor rage, not resigned acceptance of the twisted ways of fate.

The sky was falling, the rain wouldn't stop waving back and forth every ounce of pain left flowing on the plain, wouldn't stop rearranging in its own way. And while the earth absorbed, while the soil went soaked with the desperation of its own heirs, another sky lost his breathtaking colors and collapsed miserably under the bleak ribbons of daylight's pale blade kissing his neck, caressing his bent head. And another one without strings attached.

_It's over._

What they had sensed in his voice was an oncoming end to the world as they knew it, to the family they had been until then.

* * *

_***Giotto? .. Giotto. Mi stai ascoltando? Mh?**_: Giotto? .. Giotto. Are you listening to me? Hm?


End file.
